Friday, July 31, 2020
Tuesday, July 28, 2020
like humor, but smaller
DFT pitched the first one months ago. This was quickly knocked together for a Twitter post using the photo that prompted it and an image search result, and I'm putting it here so I can get it with equal facility if I need it again.
That's all. No end credits joke here today.
.
Monday, July 27, 2020
Solving the unsolved murder in Chandler's THE BIG SLEEP
Who killed the Sternwood Chauffeur? Raymond Chandler famously didn’t know the answer when he was asked by screenwriters for the adaptation of his classic novel, The Big Sleep, but some careful digging turns up a plausible answer, and possibly even a reason Chandler might have lied about it.
The Big Sleep was Chandler’s first novel, and the first appearance of Philip Marlowe, one of the most famous and frequently imitated of the fictional sleuths. Chandler wrote seven novels starring Marlowe, as well as a number of short stories. The character inspired ten movies, four radio series (and several one-off adaptations of the movies), and two series (plus one-offs) on television. Whenever a tough detective talks to himself, he seems to be using Marlowe’s voice, possibly filtered through Humphrey Bogart. And then there is the Marlowe Apocrypha (by which I mean stories by Raymond Chandler featuring detectives who would later evolve into Marlowe--not stories by other writers about Marlowe, in imitation of Chandler).
Writing did not come easily to Chandler. When it came to producing his first novel, he reached back to stories he’d already published in the pulps, a fairly ephemeral medium, adapting and borrowing from the adventures of detectives who were Marlowe in all but name: Carmady, Dalmas, Mallory, and others with and without name who already had the ethical toughness with a touch of poetry (Chandler had a classical education from Dulwich College, London, where he associated with the Bloomsbury group).
Chandler ‘cannibalized’ (his term) the earlier stories for plots, characters, and incidents, enlarging and adding detail in the process. Once he had done this, he closed the book on the stories, never allowing them to be reprinted. Three of the stories were reprinted in the 1940s — according to Philip Durham in his introduction to the collection “Killer in the Rain,” Chandler said this was done without his knowledge or permission. They had served their purpose, and whether he was embarrassed by his early work or felt that readers could be confused by their variant plotlines, or some other reason, he wasn’t interested in seeing them pop up again, even for money.
In writing The Big Sleep, Chandler cannibalized no fewer than four stories, but relied mostly on “The Curtain” and “Killer in the Rain.” As Durham notes, he also borrowed bits of “Mandarin’s Jade” and “Finger Man” for scenes and details, but the first two mentioned provided twenty-one out of thirty-two chapters in the novel. In “Killer in the Rain,” the dead chauffeur is named Carl Owen. His name is changed to Owen Taylor in The Big Sleep. We don’t see him alive in either one.
The scene where Marlowe watches them fish the car out of the water comes from “Killer in the Rain.” Inside the car was the body of Owen, chauffeur of the father of Carmen Dravec, who became Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep. Owen had been hit on the head, non-fatally, before the car went into the water and he drowned.
[SPOILER ALERT]
At the end of the story, Marlowe talks to Joe Marty (who becomes Joe Brody in the novel and movie), who reveals that he had sapped Owen, but while his attention was elsewhere, Owen came to and sped off quickly. It’s assumed by Marlowe that Marty is telling the truth, and therefore the chauffeur drove off the pier in a confused mental state. This incident, however, didn’t make it into The Big Sleep.
So who killed Owen Taylor? In The Big Sleep, Brody is otherwise much the same as Marty in the original short story. Can we assume that events followed a similar course? (Before going back and reading closely, I had the idea that Owen had been done in by the same character who committed the murder in “The Curtain,” which made for a more elegant theory and a shorter explanation, but the theory didn’t hold up under examination.) Brody doesn’t live long enough to tell Marlowe the same story Marty told, but with the parallels between the two stories, he’s the best fit. We’ll say the evidence is circumstantial, and we’ll never know because the sentence was carried out on him before we could find out — let’s just say “Joe did it. Sort of.”
And what of Chandler? Did he forget what he wrote before? It seems unlikely, given that he must have looked closely at the story while he was rewriting much of it for the novel. I would speculate instead that he preferred looking a little foolish than bringing up the stories he cannibalized for the book. Anyway, to Chandler, the details of the plot were secondary to character and mood. He expressed scorn for most mystery writers (Dashiell Hammett being a notable exception) with their railway timetables, alibis, and unmasking scene in the living room. He didn’t care to revive a story he’d already recycled, and a neat, mechanical mystery and solution were never his first priority.
The Big Sleep was Chandler’s first novel, and the first appearance of Philip Marlowe, one of the most famous and frequently imitated of the fictional sleuths. Chandler wrote seven novels starring Marlowe, as well as a number of short stories. The character inspired ten movies, four radio series (and several one-off adaptations of the movies), and two series (plus one-offs) on television. Whenever a tough detective talks to himself, he seems to be using Marlowe’s voice, possibly filtered through Humphrey Bogart. And then there is the Marlowe Apocrypha (by which I mean stories by Raymond Chandler featuring detectives who would later evolve into Marlowe--not stories by other writers about Marlowe, in imitation of Chandler).
Writing did not come easily to Chandler. When it came to producing his first novel, he reached back to stories he’d already published in the pulps, a fairly ephemeral medium, adapting and borrowing from the adventures of detectives who were Marlowe in all but name: Carmady, Dalmas, Mallory, and others with and without name who already had the ethical toughness with a touch of poetry (Chandler had a classical education from Dulwich College, London, where he associated with the Bloomsbury group).
Chandler ‘cannibalized’ (his term) the earlier stories for plots, characters, and incidents, enlarging and adding detail in the process. Once he had done this, he closed the book on the stories, never allowing them to be reprinted. Three of the stories were reprinted in the 1940s — according to Philip Durham in his introduction to the collection “Killer in the Rain,” Chandler said this was done without his knowledge or permission. They had served their purpose, and whether he was embarrassed by his early work or felt that readers could be confused by their variant plotlines, or some other reason, he wasn’t interested in seeing them pop up again, even for money.
In writing The Big Sleep, Chandler cannibalized no fewer than four stories, but relied mostly on “The Curtain” and “Killer in the Rain.” As Durham notes, he also borrowed bits of “Mandarin’s Jade” and “Finger Man” for scenes and details, but the first two mentioned provided twenty-one out of thirty-two chapters in the novel. In “Killer in the Rain,” the dead chauffeur is named Carl Owen. His name is changed to Owen Taylor in The Big Sleep. We don’t see him alive in either one.
The scene where Marlowe watches them fish the car out of the water comes from “Killer in the Rain.” Inside the car was the body of Owen, chauffeur of the father of Carmen Dravec, who became Carmen Sternwood in The Big Sleep. Owen had been hit on the head, non-fatally, before the car went into the water and he drowned.
[SPOILER ALERT]
At the end of the story, Marlowe talks to Joe Marty (who becomes Joe Brody in the novel and movie), who reveals that he had sapped Owen, but while his attention was elsewhere, Owen came to and sped off quickly. It’s assumed by Marlowe that Marty is telling the truth, and therefore the chauffeur drove off the pier in a confused mental state. This incident, however, didn’t make it into The Big Sleep.
So who killed Owen Taylor? In The Big Sleep, Brody is otherwise much the same as Marty in the original short story. Can we assume that events followed a similar course? (Before going back and reading closely, I had the idea that Owen had been done in by the same character who committed the murder in “The Curtain,” which made for a more elegant theory and a shorter explanation, but the theory didn’t hold up under examination.) Brody doesn’t live long enough to tell Marlowe the same story Marty told, but with the parallels between the two stories, he’s the best fit. We’ll say the evidence is circumstantial, and we’ll never know because the sentence was carried out on him before we could find out — let’s just say “Joe did it. Sort of.”
And what of Chandler? Did he forget what he wrote before? It seems unlikely, given that he must have looked closely at the story while he was rewriting much of it for the novel. I would speculate instead that he preferred looking a little foolish than bringing up the stories he cannibalized for the book. Anyway, to Chandler, the details of the plot were secondary to character and mood. He expressed scorn for most mystery writers (Dashiell Hammett being a notable exception) with their railway timetables, alibis, and unmasking scene in the living room. He didn’t care to revive a story he’d already recycled, and a neat, mechanical mystery and solution were never his first priority.
Friday, July 24, 2020
walking haiku
Come here, butterflies!
With every random zigzag
You refill my soul.
It occurred to me while walking that one of my favorite Walt Kelly quotes, with the addition of only a couple of punctuation marks and line returns, is a very serviceable haiku:
.
With every random zigzag
You refill my soul.
There is, unerring,And so there is, and it would be a shame to forget it.
Magic in the stumbling flight
Of the butterfly.
.
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
Today's haiku from the trail
Black dragonfly preens:
Frozen, posing, beautiful
Till my camera's on.
.
Frozen, posing, beautiful
Till my camera's on.
 |
| Standing in for today's dragonfly is a similar one I saw in China in 2011. |
Wednesday, July 15, 2020
Things You Learn on the Trail
[1] Turning right instead of left can get you an entire extra hour of walking. I did that yesterday, and wound up going all over the place, and to the other side of the Erie Canal for the first time. The converse is true too--any new turn can tempt you to further feats of foot, and any chance straying up a short dead-end street can be a ticket to new sights, sounds, and smells. Even flavors, if you're 100% pos that the area hasn't been sprayed.
Who knew there'd be a beached inflatable unicorn in this yard? I certainly didn't.
[2] Hydration isn't just for drinking. I've started carrying a flat plastic water bottle that Sarah received after some soccer tournament in Webster. The annoyance of adding it to my swollen arsenal (umbrella and camera in back pockets, phone and utility bag in shirt pocket, etc) is outweighed by the luxury of saying "Aha! Methinks I'll sip some of the old aqua pura right now!" and doing it. I've switched from my headphones to ear buds for the lighter and less sweaty rewards, and this lets me wear my Carolina hat instead of my billed cap, which in turn shades my neck. I can also take it off and put it back on more easily, and (most important) I can use it as a swamp cooler by drenching the crown. Of course, this dries out before you know it, and I didn't want to use my drinking water, and I was reluctant to dip it in one of the nice water bowls local citizens put out for passing puppies, or even to use a puddle. I held out for the drinking fountains at Schoen Place, which of course turned out to be out of service, possibly because of some deadly plague that's going around. The canal was sort of convenient, but not that convenient, and who knows what those ducks do in it? (Spoiler: I know.) I eventually remoistened it by taking advantage of the copious dew on the grass, dragging it along for a few yards, looking like a bird feigning a broken wing, until the crown was sufficiently moist.
Another insufficiently inviting opportunity to moisten the hat. Great for looking, dodgy for personal use.
[3] Today's mishap is tomorrow's knowledge. Yesterday, I found that by taking the one-lane bridge over the canal at Mitchell, I could not only see the really neat canalside buildings that I'm thinking were maybe stables for mules or something, but I could walk a little farther and catch the other portion of the Auburn trail, which dead-ends in the clear-cut valley of the giant walking pylons. Yesterday I took that over to State Street and proceeded to Schoen Place, where not enough people are wearing their germ straps, and then took Main Street most of the way home. Today, I reversed that and picked up the valley from State Street, and thought I'd be clever and take it all the way to Jefferson. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the Erie Canal is still there, and the wires just go over it, which is an option I don't have. Nonetheless, I now know that I could have taken that trail from Schoen Place all the way to the valley and then caught the Auburn to Mitchell to Jefferson to Knickerbocker to home.
The pylons are friendly, but they might lead you to the very brink of the canal. Beware! Be very ware!
[4] Slower is often better. If your goal is to see things and take pictures, being on foot gives you opportunities. Things I never could catch out of the car window become easily available. Yesterday, I walked all around a couple of ruined buildings by the canal that I'd never been able to photograph, and snapped away until they became boring (about twelve minutes). I can't believe nobody has bought them to replace with McMansions in that spot, overlooking the canal and with a view of the aforementioned former stables. I've also taken surreptitious snaps of homes that have always interested me. Click! Take it home and study it at length.
It's a bit of a fixer-upper. Just replace the roof and the parts under it.
[5] Five things is about enough. I might do a more narrative version of my walks some time, depending upon how much frenzy I can whip up here. Oh, look! It's possible to comment on this blog. Who knew? I've about stopped using Google Earth to figure out new routes, though I can guess close enough. Basically, I figure about three miles in an hour and then count the hours. Yesterday two and three-quarters. Today, just over two, and that includes the backtracking part. No regrets. I've found blackberries every day, and one day I was next to a hedge to fragrant (honeysuckle, maybe) that I sort of wanted to hug it. I've seen dozens of painted rocks people have left by trails and sidewalks to cheer the weary traveler, and I've improved my ability to just keep walking (left foot, etc.) for as long as it takes. I have lots of photos I haven't used yet.
Watch this space.
.
Who knew there'd be a beached inflatable unicorn in this yard? I certainly didn't.
[2] Hydration isn't just for drinking. I've started carrying a flat plastic water bottle that Sarah received after some soccer tournament in Webster. The annoyance of adding it to my swollen arsenal (umbrella and camera in back pockets, phone and utility bag in shirt pocket, etc) is outweighed by the luxury of saying "Aha! Methinks I'll sip some of the old aqua pura right now!" and doing it. I've switched from my headphones to ear buds for the lighter and less sweaty rewards, and this lets me wear my Carolina hat instead of my billed cap, which in turn shades my neck. I can also take it off and put it back on more easily, and (most important) I can use it as a swamp cooler by drenching the crown. Of course, this dries out before you know it, and I didn't want to use my drinking water, and I was reluctant to dip it in one of the nice water bowls local citizens put out for passing puppies, or even to use a puddle. I held out for the drinking fountains at Schoen Place, which of course turned out to be out of service, possibly because of some deadly plague that's going around. The canal was sort of convenient, but not that convenient, and who knows what those ducks do in it? (Spoiler: I know.) I eventually remoistened it by taking advantage of the copious dew on the grass, dragging it along for a few yards, looking like a bird feigning a broken wing, until the crown was sufficiently moist.
Another insufficiently inviting opportunity to moisten the hat. Great for looking, dodgy for personal use.
[3] Today's mishap is tomorrow's knowledge. Yesterday, I found that by taking the one-lane bridge over the canal at Mitchell, I could not only see the really neat canalside buildings that I'm thinking were maybe stables for mules or something, but I could walk a little farther and catch the other portion of the Auburn trail, which dead-ends in the clear-cut valley of the giant walking pylons. Yesterday I took that over to State Street and proceeded to Schoen Place, where not enough people are wearing their germ straps, and then took Main Street most of the way home. Today, I reversed that and picked up the valley from State Street, and thought I'd be clever and take it all the way to Jefferson. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the Erie Canal is still there, and the wires just go over it, which is an option I don't have. Nonetheless, I now know that I could have taken that trail from Schoen Place all the way to the valley and then caught the Auburn to Mitchell to Jefferson to Knickerbocker to home.
The pylons are friendly, but they might lead you to the very brink of the canal. Beware! Be very ware!
[4] Slower is often better. If your goal is to see things and take pictures, being on foot gives you opportunities. Things I never could catch out of the car window become easily available. Yesterday, I walked all around a couple of ruined buildings by the canal that I'd never been able to photograph, and snapped away until they became boring (about twelve minutes). I can't believe nobody has bought them to replace with McMansions in that spot, overlooking the canal and with a view of the aforementioned former stables. I've also taken surreptitious snaps of homes that have always interested me. Click! Take it home and study it at length.
[5] Five things is about enough. I might do a more narrative version of my walks some time, depending upon how much frenzy I can whip up here. Oh, look! It's possible to comment on this blog. Who knew? I've about stopped using Google Earth to figure out new routes, though I can guess close enough. Basically, I figure about three miles in an hour and then count the hours. Yesterday two and three-quarters. Today, just over two, and that includes the backtracking part. No regrets. I've found blackberries every day, and one day I was next to a hedge to fragrant (honeysuckle, maybe) that I sort of wanted to hug it. I've seen dozens of painted rocks people have left by trails and sidewalks to cheer the weary traveler, and I've improved my ability to just keep walking (left foot, etc.) for as long as it takes. I have lots of photos I haven't used yet.
Watch this space.
.
Friday, July 10, 2020
In Search of a Quote
The only references I seem to find to this now are me, quoting it from memory. Here's an example:
Ta.
.
Former National Lampoon editor Sean Kelly called out fellow former NatLamp ed PJ O’Rourke once, and in the course of it he described “the one conservative joke,” which, shorn of corroborative detail works out to “if these people are so darn smart, why aren’t they able-bodied/rich/white/male/straight?”Can anybody point me to the original of this? Does Kelly have a blog or an address I could write to to ask him? It was a piercing observation, and I don't like watering it down through my own memories of how I paraphrased it earlier, like a solo game of Telephone.
Ta.
.
Tuesday, July 07, 2020
Left foot. Right foot.
I walk through the world on the soles of my feet.
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
Out of my driveway and over a block;
Detouring through streets with the shadiest trees
I figure on just over four miles to walk.
I'm ready to relish the tiniest breeze.
The path between houses, a trail through the woods,
The Auburn trail beckons. I enter its shade
Past daughter's old school via two neighborhoods
To tread the firm earth that the railroad men laid.
Small movement seizes my gaze at my feet
A frog moves one yard and then freezes in place
Another blackberry is ready to eat
White butterfly drunkenly flies in my face.
The last leg's uphill, it's slow going but sweet
Umbrella and cap help to temper the heat.
I practically coast the last few dozen feet:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The house is a haven that always needs work
Our work gives life meaning and fodder for talk
Complaining is free. It's an un-ending perk
A topic for small chat along the long walk.
The leak that I fixed last year's dripping again
I'd call in the plumber, but he must be paid
I'll do what I can just one more time, and then
Next year they can deal with the muddle I made.
This is the year when the porch's damn roof
Must be fixed and fixed well, or we'll lose the whole room
Winter will come, we're not yet water-proof
We ponder our financial peril with gloom.
Solutions don't last, resolutions aren't neat
It isn't an option to shrug that we're beat
So we struggle ahead, not admitting defeat:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
.
I'm not sure if this is finished or not. Watch this space: Changes may take place silently.
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
Out of my driveway and over a block;
Detouring through streets with the shadiest trees
I figure on just over four miles to walk.
I'm ready to relish the tiniest breeze.
The path between houses, a trail through the woods,
The Auburn trail beckons. I enter its shade
Past daughter's old school via two neighborhoods
To tread the firm earth that the railroad men laid.
Small movement seizes my gaze at my feet
A frog moves one yard and then freezes in place
Another blackberry is ready to eat
White butterfly drunkenly flies in my face.
The last leg's uphill, it's slow going but sweet
Umbrella and cap help to temper the heat.
I practically coast the last few dozen feet:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The house is a haven that always needs work
Our work gives life meaning and fodder for talk
Complaining is free. It's an un-ending perk
A topic for small chat along the long walk.
The leak that I fixed last year's dripping again
I'd call in the plumber, but he must be paid
I'll do what I can just one more time, and then
Next year they can deal with the muddle I made.
This is the year when the porch's damn roof
Must be fixed and fixed well, or we'll lose the whole room
Winter will come, we're not yet water-proof
We ponder our financial peril with gloom.
Solutions don't last, resolutions aren't neat
It isn't an option to shrug that we're beat
So we struggle ahead, not admitting defeat:
Left foot. Right foot. If not there yet, repeat.
The world is a house on the edge of a drop
Some party inside like tomorrow won't come
While others are nervously working up top
Trying to re-roof, for Winter will come.
We work for solutions and think we're ahead
When we've managed to budget for vittles and rent
But our loud, feckless roommates have broken their bed
And accused us of wasting the money they spent.
The going's unsure: slowly gain, quickly lose
The prizes we'd won somehow frittered away.
When we're running ahead, someone's stolen our shoes.
The progress of decades wiped out in a day
The road is uneven, the map's incomplete
And it's rare we can hitchhike or otherwise cheat.
We work through this life with our souls in our feet.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Are we there yet?
Repeat.
I'm not sure if this is finished or not. Watch this space: Changes may take place silently.
Sunday, July 05, 2020
Mission: Improbable [content warning: sex, violence, bad puns]
(Opening music plays: Theme to "Peabody's Improbable History")
Peabody: Hello, everyone. Peabody here, and this is my boy, Sherman.
Sherman: What are we going to do today, Mr. Peabody?
P: Today, Sherman, we are going back to the Whitechapel district of London, in the year 1888, to pay a call upon that notorious cut-up, Jack the Ripper.
S: I'll set the WABAC machine!
[Business with WABAC]
P: And here we are. And there, unless I'm very much mistaken--which I never am--the gentleman with the high neckline and narrow lapels is Mr. Ripper himself.
(Jack is the typical upper-class English twit we've seen in other Jay Ward cartoons, vaguely reminiscent of young David Niven.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody! He's just standing there! He's not ripping anybody!
P: Give him time, Sherman, give him time. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
(they wait)
P: That's enough time, Sherman. Let's go give history a helping hand, shall we?
S: Let's shall!
P: We can work on your English later.
S: What are you going to do, Mr. Peabody?
P: As history suggests, Jack was a misogynist with a maniacal hatred of women of the street. Therefore, we shall introduce him to such a woman and let nature take its awful course.
(A strumpet shows up, and Peabody instructs her.)
P: Here, madame, is a pretty penny for you, if you will go up to that gentleman and whisper filthy nothings in his ear.
Strumpet: Coo lumme, pet!
(She walks up to to him and whispers in his ear. Disappointingly, his reaction consists of manifesting a bunch of hearts and blushing slightly, then following her offstage.)
P: Alas, Sherman, our first gambit has failed.
S: What'll we do now, Mr. Peabody?
P: We wait, Sherman.
(Five minutes later, the twit returns from his assignation and stands on the corner again.)
P: And now, let's see if we can poison his mind against that lady of the evening. Oh, sir!
J: Oh, I say, what, wot?
P: Are you aware that the young woman you were dallying with just now is a harlot?
J: I beg your pardon?
P: A harlot. A naughty lady. A tuppence tart.
J: Oh, I say! I gave her thruppence! (goofy smile) But it was worth fuppence and a ha'penny! (more hearts emit)
P: Ah, but she doesn't care with whom she cohabits, and is even now sharing her possibly diseased charms with other gents.
J: Oh, well, jolly old fortunes of war, wot? Share the wealth, wot?
P: But aren't you just a bit irate, or murderously jealous?
J: I should say not! Easy come, easy go!
(He resumes standing aimlessly and Peabody returns to Sherman.)
S: What now, Mr. Peabody?
P: What indeed, Sherman! This is a poser. If Jack the Ripper fails to rip, history itself will be the poorer for it!
S: Gosh!
P: Gosh, indeed. Indeed, gosh! Let me think.
(Sherman assumes a posture of silent, alert readiness, as befits a well-trained boy.)
P: Sherman, I have it!
S: The plague?
P: No, an idea. According to the best historians--I include myself among their number--Jack the Ripper, in addition to his day job of ripping, was also a frustrated surgeon.
S: He was?
P: He positively was. And therefore, I shall appeal to his medical nature. (to Jack) Oh, sir!
J: You rang?
P: Are you aware that the saucy bit of crumpet with whom you have been cavorting is in urgent need of medical attention?
J: Good heavens!
P: And if you don't operate at once, her appendix and spleen may both burst forthwith?
J: I? Operate? But, my dear sir, I have no idea what to do!
P: Just follow my instructions, and all will be copacetic. Come along, there's no time to lose!
(They dash around the corner to where the Strumpet is back to soliciting.)
P: There she is. Quickly, hold this ether-soaked cotton in front of her nose for five seconds!
J: It smells fascinating. What a bouquet! (starts to sniff at it)
P: Stop! Do as I say, or I'll summon a bobby!
J: Oh, very well. (He knocks out the Strumpet.)
P: Now, gather her up, and follow me into this secluded alley. You will follow my directions to the letter!
J: Oh, quite. Pip pip.
P: (voice over) For the next thirty minutes, I directed that hapless drone in a series of the most horrific indignities a human being has ever perpetrated on another. At the end of the time, the hapless fille de joie was a lifeless, bloody husk, and Jack the Ripper was born!
J: Say, that was ripping fun! I think I'll do it again! And again!
P: Stout fellow. Think of it as cleaning the streets!
(Jack dashes off like a maniac, brandishing his blade.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody, that was terrible!
P: Yes, Sherman, our job here is done. Back... to the WABAC machine, and home!
(back in Peabody's penthouse)
P: Well, Sherman, did you learn anything today?
S: History is gruesome?
P: Did you happen to notice anything about the procedure you witnessed?
S: History is stomach-turning?
P: Did you chance to observe the instrument being used?
S: He was an upper-class British twit, wasn't he?
P: I mean the instrument that he was using on the luckless trollop.
S: Gosh, no, Mr. Peabody! I just assumed he used a scalpel.
P: One might guess so, but the actual implement was more of a colloquial hand blade, popular in the 19th and early 20th century.
S: You're not going to say what I hope you're not going to say, are you, Mr. Peabody?
P: Why, Sherman, even one of your rudimentary perceptive abilities should have been able to discern the familiar form of a... Jack... knife!
S: Oh, Mr. Peabody!
(ba-whump)
(closing music)
.
Peabody: Hello, everyone. Peabody here, and this is my boy, Sherman.
Sherman: What are we going to do today, Mr. Peabody?
P: Today, Sherman, we are going back to the Whitechapel district of London, in the year 1888, to pay a call upon that notorious cut-up, Jack the Ripper.
S: I'll set the WABAC machine!
[Business with WABAC]
P: And here we are. And there, unless I'm very much mistaken--which I never am--the gentleman with the high neckline and narrow lapels is Mr. Ripper himself.
(Jack is the typical upper-class English twit we've seen in other Jay Ward cartoons, vaguely reminiscent of young David Niven.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody! He's just standing there! He's not ripping anybody!
P: Give him time, Sherman, give him time. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.
(they wait)
P: That's enough time, Sherman. Let's go give history a helping hand, shall we?
S: Let's shall!
P: We can work on your English later.
S: What are you going to do, Mr. Peabody?
P: As history suggests, Jack was a misogynist with a maniacal hatred of women of the street. Therefore, we shall introduce him to such a woman and let nature take its awful course.
(A strumpet shows up, and Peabody instructs her.)
P: Here, madame, is a pretty penny for you, if you will go up to that gentleman and whisper filthy nothings in his ear.
Strumpet: Coo lumme, pet!
(She walks up to to him and whispers in his ear. Disappointingly, his reaction consists of manifesting a bunch of hearts and blushing slightly, then following her offstage.)
P: Alas, Sherman, our first gambit has failed.
S: What'll we do now, Mr. Peabody?
P: We wait, Sherman.
(Five minutes later, the twit returns from his assignation and stands on the corner again.)
P: And now, let's see if we can poison his mind against that lady of the evening. Oh, sir!
J: Oh, I say, what, wot?
P: Are you aware that the young woman you were dallying with just now is a harlot?
J: I beg your pardon?
P: A harlot. A naughty lady. A tuppence tart.
J: Oh, I say! I gave her thruppence! (goofy smile) But it was worth fuppence and a ha'penny! (more hearts emit)
P: Ah, but she doesn't care with whom she cohabits, and is even now sharing her possibly diseased charms with other gents.
J: Oh, well, jolly old fortunes of war, wot? Share the wealth, wot?
P: But aren't you just a bit irate, or murderously jealous?
J: I should say not! Easy come, easy go!
(He resumes standing aimlessly and Peabody returns to Sherman.)
S: What now, Mr. Peabody?
P: What indeed, Sherman! This is a poser. If Jack the Ripper fails to rip, history itself will be the poorer for it!
S: Gosh!
P: Gosh, indeed. Indeed, gosh! Let me think.
(Sherman assumes a posture of silent, alert readiness, as befits a well-trained boy.)
P: Sherman, I have it!
S: The plague?
P: No, an idea. According to the best historians--I include myself among their number--Jack the Ripper, in addition to his day job of ripping, was also a frustrated surgeon.
S: He was?
P: He positively was. And therefore, I shall appeal to his medical nature. (to Jack) Oh, sir!
J: You rang?
P: Are you aware that the saucy bit of crumpet with whom you have been cavorting is in urgent need of medical attention?
J: Good heavens!
P: And if you don't operate at once, her appendix and spleen may both burst forthwith?
J: I? Operate? But, my dear sir, I have no idea what to do!
P: Just follow my instructions, and all will be copacetic. Come along, there's no time to lose!
(They dash around the corner to where the Strumpet is back to soliciting.)
P: There she is. Quickly, hold this ether-soaked cotton in front of her nose for five seconds!
J: It smells fascinating. What a bouquet! (starts to sniff at it)
P: Stop! Do as I say, or I'll summon a bobby!
J: Oh, very well. (He knocks out the Strumpet.)
P: Now, gather her up, and follow me into this secluded alley. You will follow my directions to the letter!
J: Oh, quite. Pip pip.
P: (voice over) For the next thirty minutes, I directed that hapless drone in a series of the most horrific indignities a human being has ever perpetrated on another. At the end of the time, the hapless fille de joie was a lifeless, bloody husk, and Jack the Ripper was born!
J: Say, that was ripping fun! I think I'll do it again! And again!
P: Stout fellow. Think of it as cleaning the streets!
(Jack dashes off like a maniac, brandishing his blade.)
S: Gosh, Mr. Peabody, that was terrible!
P: Yes, Sherman, our job here is done. Back... to the WABAC machine, and home!
(back in Peabody's penthouse)
P: Well, Sherman, did you learn anything today?
S: History is gruesome?
P: Did you happen to notice anything about the procedure you witnessed?
S: History is stomach-turning?
P: Did you chance to observe the instrument being used?
S: He was an upper-class British twit, wasn't he?
P: I mean the instrument that he was using on the luckless trollop.
S: Gosh, no, Mr. Peabody! I just assumed he used a scalpel.
P: One might guess so, but the actual implement was more of a colloquial hand blade, popular in the 19th and early 20th century.
S: You're not going to say what I hope you're not going to say, are you, Mr. Peabody?
P: Why, Sherman, even one of your rudimentary perceptive abilities should have been able to discern the familiar form of a... Jack... knife!
S: Oh, Mr. Peabody!
(ba-whump)
(closing music)
.
Friday, June 26, 2020
I take walks
And when I take walks, I pass yards with INVISIBLE FENCE signs, and I always think of this. So today I drew it.
After I drew this and redrew it (using card stock this time), I started thinking maybe it should be a poodle. But they're not really a French dog anyway. They were bred in Germany, for retrieving game in the water. I did a little work in Photoshop to make the sign neater, completely missing the vague remnant of grey in the bottom corner because I was too lazy to scan it and took a pic of it with my phone instead. Paying for it now.
.
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Monday, June 22, 2020
Kip's Law of Odious Comparisons
From time to time, someone compares Donald Trump to another thing or person--a rat, a pig, a hyena, the coronavirus, whatever--it doesn't matter what they compare him to, you can count on the subsequent appearance in the comment thread or conversation of someone who will leap to their metaphoric feet to defend whatever they compared him to.
I call this "Kip's Law of Odious Comparisons" at work. The law could be stated thusly: No matter what you compare prominent Republicans to in order to belittle them, the object of comparison will be promptly and hotly defended in the forum you're in.
"Hey! Pigs are intelligent, and they only live in filth because it's how people raise them!"
"Hey! Rats are cute and funny, and their fingers are proportionately long in comparison to Trump's!"
"Hey! That shiny crud that forms in old lead water pipes serves a useful purpose!"
Kip's Law of Odious Comparisons strikes again!
Liken DFT to whom or whatm you will, from slime mold to Hitler, and that will instill in someone's breast the desire to defend that other thing against the comparison. I still feel the impulse myself, but since putting my name on a sort of law that could be considered critical of the practice, or at least of its inevitability, I can resist it most of the time.
If I had a nickel for each time it's invoked, I'd have a pile of folding money by now, as well as the sneaking feeling I should have demanded more than a nickel. What was I thinking?
Anyway, since I sometimes invoke it by name without explaining, and since a search for it turns up nothing at all, I'm posting this to see if it will at least function as an explanation to others who are perplexed by my usage. Obscurity may be the soul of wit, but it's only sporting to leave a clue out now and then.
.
I call this "Kip's Law of Odious Comparisons" at work. The law could be stated thusly: No matter what you compare prominent Republicans to in order to belittle them, the object of comparison will be promptly and hotly defended in the forum you're in.
"Hey! Pigs are intelligent, and they only live in filth because it's how people raise them!"
"Hey! Rats are cute and funny, and their fingers are proportionately long in comparison to Trump's!"
"Hey! That shiny crud that forms in old lead water pipes serves a useful purpose!"
Kip's Law of Odious Comparisons strikes again!
Liken DFT to whom or whatm you will, from slime mold to Hitler, and that will instill in someone's breast the desire to defend that other thing against the comparison. I still feel the impulse myself, but since putting my name on a sort of law that could be considered critical of the practice, or at least of its inevitability, I can resist it most of the time.
If I had a nickel for each time it's invoked, I'd have a pile of folding money by now, as well as the sneaking feeling I should have demanded more than a nickel. What was I thinking?
Anyway, since I sometimes invoke it by name without explaining, and since a search for it turns up nothing at all, I'm posting this to see if it will at least function as an explanation to others who are perplexed by my usage. Obscurity may be the soul of wit, but it's only sporting to leave a clue out now and then.
.
Saturday, June 06, 2020
Trail of the Lonesome Pal
Today I went out for my usual walk, planning to hit the Auburn Trail (formerly railroad tracks for the Auburn line), which became viable once I started thinking of walks as being around three miles long. I take different walks, most often through the streets of my neighborhood, but lately I've rediscovered the Auburn. It's easier now than the first time I got on it, at which time it dead-ended up against a property owner in the Cartersville neighborhood who believed that he owned this public land because it was next to his place. The Town of Pittsford spent some time changing his mind, and a few years ago, it all opened up.
I went in the usual way. A beaten path skirting a farmer's field (the Knickerbocker area, and Knickerbocker Hill, are all named for this farm, which is still apparently in the Knickerbocker family) leads to the former railroad tracks, sometimes a dirt trail, sometimes a cinder trail. A few feet of it are paved where it joins Knickerbocker Road.
Here I am, looking back toward the invisible spot where the trail begins. On the horizon is the Knickerbocker Farm. I'm given to understand they aren't wild about people walking on their pasture, which I did once before I knew that. Now I am good. YOU HEAR ME? GOOD!
I turned the corner of the field and walked east toward the tracks, and saw white blossoms, which my camera didn't want to photograph. Well! Who's to be the master, here? I paid money for you, my fine photographic instrument! I boldly turned the wheel from Automatic to Manual for a walk on the wild side. I experimented with ISO and shutter speed today. So far I've been able to capture detail in darkness at the expense of losing all detail in the sky and some other bright areas.
By the way, these photos will enlarge if you click on them. Well, they do for me. Perhaps your set-up differes from mine in this way. How can you find out? Go on, give it a try. I clicked and adjusted my way along through a couple more turnings, and could see the cinders of the Auburn below me. One thing I like about this route, there's more up and down and the terrain is less regular. One thing I don't like: I think it's where I'm getting the majority of my bug bites these days.
I wasn't quite satisfied that my photo looking down captured the elevation change satisfactorily. Hitting the trail (not literally: I stepped on it), I turned around and tried the converse shot, looking back at where I'd come from. As advertised, this shot captures some detail while losing the blue of the sky. I might be able to get it back in Photoshop, or turn a darker shot to account, but for immediate gratification today, I'm dumping them all in just as I clicked them. The greens of the foliage seem to lose some of their yellow and tend toward blue. You should see the ones I threw away.
There we go. Captured the trail looking back, and the one that forks off if it.
THE ONE THAT FORKS OFF OF IT??
Holy George Gordon, Lord Byron, there's another path there, leading into the enticing thick of the woods that I could see from the crest of the previous path. Here was my chance to see something new, and I took it right away. It led through grasses and elbow-high shrubs with flowers and a dragonfly and a lovely dark butterfly way cooler than the little white cabbage butterflies I've been seeing back in (ptoo!) civilization. A creek I had never suspected in my twelve years here ran along quietly, easily accessed from occasional forkings of the path, and full of rocks to stand on.
I took photos that looked surreal when I got them home, some with rocks as green as the foliage, and many with what could have been the atomic flash of The Big One in the area outside the shade of the trees.
After all that, the path eventually led to a big flat area where it stopped being a path and became something else. A big patio, maybe. I returned to the railroad trail, where I saw a half dozen people in all as I made my way toward Knickerbocker and pavement again.
On the downhill side of the Auburn trail, the creek opened up into a gorge. There was also one upstream, come to think of it. I tried for a couple more shots, going portrait mode for this one. I'll preview this and see if I made it too big. I hope I can leave it this size.
I turned aside to capture the sorels. Is that the word? Tree mushrooms. A couple passed behind me while I did, and when I returned my attention to the trail, they had proceeded far past the point of pantomiming a hello through my mask. All through this, I'd been listening to Act III of Sullivan's grand opera Ivanhoe, and would have had to pull an ear bud out to communicate anyway.
Another view of the sprawling Knickerbocker farm, with its huge barn. The high ground here conceals a horse or two that might have been visible otherwise. I boldly took another side path as a shortcut to the road, but missed little of the steepest uphill part of the whole walk. I once saw a turkey coming out of the corn on the south side of the road and stopped and jogged back with my camera, but it was gone. Since then, I've looked for it two thousand times or more, and can report that it's still gone, "like a turkey in the corn."
Here, not far from the entrance to our neighborhood (through the subdivision built next to ours, and I believe more recently--Knickerbocker Hill, named for the hill named for the farm named for the Knickerbockers--dates to about 1965, and in the aerial photos we received along with this house, seems to have been the first thing put here) is the farm stand that sells corn grown in the fields on the north side of the road. They also sell other vegetables and eggs that they buy from other farms or, more likely, from a jobber who brings them stuff. Useful, sometimes, if you need a tomato.
The road leading into the newer (and ritzier) subdivision is a short avenue, with a median and everything. On the left is a rather nice house that I got to be in one time when an outgoing owner had a moving sale before returning to England. The downstairs had a room full of built-in cabinets that I, of course, envied.
Behind that fence, off the large back yard, this gazebo sits and looks out over the Knickerbocker fields to the rolling hills (are they Appalachian mountains? hmmm) and far horizon. I often wish I'd had the foresight to ask the outgoing owner if they'd mind me sitting out there for about a half hour while slowly sipping a glass of cold water. Missed opportunities (like not asking the owners of an enticing tree swing at the end of a private drive I used to see on bike rides around the Mariner's Park, back in Newport News)!
1902 map, I think. I see these plats here and there, usually for wall decoration, and usually when I only have my phone to take pictures with. It's instructive to see the progress over the years. Our subdivision seems to be the Blodgett holdings, but was expanded to include the Knickerbocker lands just south of them. Then the newer stuff came in on the James Stewart spread (didn't know he owned land here, did you? DID YOU?). Silco's place became another subdivision. Other patches were filled in (I guess) as patriarchs died and their families cashed in. East Road was moved somewhat around the turn of the century, which may be reflected in the map. You can see the railroad tracks. They crossed the canal on big cement piers that still stand, and I wish somebody'd built a foot bridge over them so I could walk the trail across the Erie Canal there. Oh, the places I'd go.
Since I'd done so much extra walking, I cut through Joe and Deb's yard, once I'd located their house. They're our back neighbors, living on a street of lovely individual homes which had some of the best trick-or-treating back in the days when I had a trick-or-treater in the family. As I got to our yard, I met them coming back through our yard (or our neighbor Bob's yard, which also backs onto theirs) and criticized them jovially for walking on other people's property, and they asked if I was the guy photographing the tree on the railroad trail. We chatted about trails and other possible complete circuits one might make by going right onto the Auburn instead of left, and caught up on where our kids were going to school and such.
A good day walking. Next time--Monday, most likely, as I take Sundays off--I think I'll take that right turn, and either walk on Mill Road, or follow the RR trail to Thornell and re-enter the neighborhood through one of several little paths that give shortcuts to Thornell Road Elementary and the houses near it (those houses take miles to drive to, but I can walk or ride right to them) or the high school (located in Clare Barker's old spread), or Thornell Farm Park (due south of Barker's).
.
I went in the usual way. A beaten path skirting a farmer's field (the Knickerbocker area, and Knickerbocker Hill, are all named for this farm, which is still apparently in the Knickerbocker family) leads to the former railroad tracks, sometimes a dirt trail, sometimes a cinder trail. A few feet of it are paved where it joins Knickerbocker Road.
Here I am, looking back toward the invisible spot where the trail begins. On the horizon is the Knickerbocker Farm. I'm given to understand they aren't wild about people walking on their pasture, which I did once before I knew that. Now I am good. YOU HEAR ME? GOOD!
I turned the corner of the field and walked east toward the tracks, and saw white blossoms, which my camera didn't want to photograph. Well! Who's to be the master, here? I paid money for you, my fine photographic instrument! I boldly turned the wheel from Automatic to Manual for a walk on the wild side. I experimented with ISO and shutter speed today. So far I've been able to capture detail in darkness at the expense of losing all detail in the sky and some other bright areas.
By the way, these photos will enlarge if you click on them. Well, they do for me. Perhaps your set-up differes from mine in this way. How can you find out? Go on, give it a try. I clicked and adjusted my way along through a couple more turnings, and could see the cinders of the Auburn below me. One thing I like about this route, there's more up and down and the terrain is less regular. One thing I don't like: I think it's where I'm getting the majority of my bug bites these days.
I wasn't quite satisfied that my photo looking down captured the elevation change satisfactorily. Hitting the trail (not literally: I stepped on it), I turned around and tried the converse shot, looking back at where I'd come from. As advertised, this shot captures some detail while losing the blue of the sky. I might be able to get it back in Photoshop, or turn a darker shot to account, but for immediate gratification today, I'm dumping them all in just as I clicked them. The greens of the foliage seem to lose some of their yellow and tend toward blue. You should see the ones I threw away.
There we go. Captured the trail looking back, and the one that forks off if it.
THE ONE THAT FORKS OFF OF IT??
Holy George Gordon, Lord Byron, there's another path there, leading into the enticing thick of the woods that I could see from the crest of the previous path. Here was my chance to see something new, and I took it right away. It led through grasses and elbow-high shrubs with flowers and a dragonfly and a lovely dark butterfly way cooler than the little white cabbage butterflies I've been seeing back in (ptoo!) civilization. A creek I had never suspected in my twelve years here ran along quietly, easily accessed from occasional forkings of the path, and full of rocks to stand on.
I took photos that looked surreal when I got them home, some with rocks as green as the foliage, and many with what could have been the atomic flash of The Big One in the area outside the shade of the trees.
After all that, the path eventually led to a big flat area where it stopped being a path and became something else. A big patio, maybe. I returned to the railroad trail, where I saw a half dozen people in all as I made my way toward Knickerbocker and pavement again.
On the downhill side of the Auburn trail, the creek opened up into a gorge. There was also one upstream, come to think of it. I tried for a couple more shots, going portrait mode for this one. I'll preview this and see if I made it too big. I hope I can leave it this size.
I turned aside to capture the sorels. Is that the word? Tree mushrooms. A couple passed behind me while I did, and when I returned my attention to the trail, they had proceeded far past the point of pantomiming a hello through my mask. All through this, I'd been listening to Act III of Sullivan's grand opera Ivanhoe, and would have had to pull an ear bud out to communicate anyway.
Another view of the sprawling Knickerbocker farm, with its huge barn. The high ground here conceals a horse or two that might have been visible otherwise. I boldly took another side path as a shortcut to the road, but missed little of the steepest uphill part of the whole walk. I once saw a turkey coming out of the corn on the south side of the road and stopped and jogged back with my camera, but it was gone. Since then, I've looked for it two thousand times or more, and can report that it's still gone, "like a turkey in the corn."
Here, not far from the entrance to our neighborhood (through the subdivision built next to ours, and I believe more recently--Knickerbocker Hill, named for the hill named for the farm named for the Knickerbockers--dates to about 1965, and in the aerial photos we received along with this house, seems to have been the first thing put here) is the farm stand that sells corn grown in the fields on the north side of the road. They also sell other vegetables and eggs that they buy from other farms or, more likely, from a jobber who brings them stuff. Useful, sometimes, if you need a tomato.
The road leading into the newer (and ritzier) subdivision is a short avenue, with a median and everything. On the left is a rather nice house that I got to be in one time when an outgoing owner had a moving sale before returning to England. The downstairs had a room full of built-in cabinets that I, of course, envied.
Behind that fence, off the large back yard, this gazebo sits and looks out over the Knickerbocker fields to the rolling hills (are they Appalachian mountains? hmmm) and far horizon. I often wish I'd had the foresight to ask the outgoing owner if they'd mind me sitting out there for about a half hour while slowly sipping a glass of cold water. Missed opportunities (like not asking the owners of an enticing tree swing at the end of a private drive I used to see on bike rides around the Mariner's Park, back in Newport News)!
1902 map, I think. I see these plats here and there, usually for wall decoration, and usually when I only have my phone to take pictures with. It's instructive to see the progress over the years. Our subdivision seems to be the Blodgett holdings, but was expanded to include the Knickerbocker lands just south of them. Then the newer stuff came in on the James Stewart spread (didn't know he owned land here, did you? DID YOU?). Silco's place became another subdivision. Other patches were filled in (I guess) as patriarchs died and their families cashed in. East Road was moved somewhat around the turn of the century, which may be reflected in the map. You can see the railroad tracks. They crossed the canal on big cement piers that still stand, and I wish somebody'd built a foot bridge over them so I could walk the trail across the Erie Canal there. Oh, the places I'd go.
Since I'd done so much extra walking, I cut through Joe and Deb's yard, once I'd located their house. They're our back neighbors, living on a street of lovely individual homes which had some of the best trick-or-treating back in the days when I had a trick-or-treater in the family. As I got to our yard, I met them coming back through our yard (or our neighbor Bob's yard, which also backs onto theirs) and criticized them jovially for walking on other people's property, and they asked if I was the guy photographing the tree on the railroad trail. We chatted about trails and other possible complete circuits one might make by going right onto the Auburn instead of left, and caught up on where our kids were going to school and such.
A good day walking. Next time--Monday, most likely, as I take Sundays off--I think I'll take that right turn, and either walk on Mill Road, or follow the RR trail to Thornell and re-enter the neighborhood through one of several little paths that give shortcuts to Thornell Road Elementary and the houses near it (those houses take miles to drive to, but I can walk or ride right to them) or the high school (located in Clare Barker's old spread), or Thornell Farm Park (due south of Barker's).
.
Thursday, June 04, 2020
Status Update, June 2020
No time like now to write this! For one thing, I have clients. Jobs! I'm earning money at home in my spare time.
I'm getting exercise. When I felt I had to stop going to the gym, I increased my walking to six times a week, three miles each time. First, I went toward town on the paved sidewalk, but I spent too much of my time stepping aside, calculating whether I actually could step aside (between a fence and a puddle), and resenting people who don't step aside when I do. I sat down and figured out a three-mile path in this neighborhood, where everyone walks in the street and it's fairly easy to be six feet away from someone coming toward you. After some weeks of that, I've started exploring a little more, and have rediscovered the overland route to the railroad trail. It makes the walk a little more than three miles, and includes uneven terrain and a bigger hill. Presumably, that's all good. I carry a camera and an umbrella much of the time. The latter not only repels rain, but gives me moving shade. I also use the occasion to research the best way to keep my glasses from fogging up with exhaled breath that comes up from my mask. So far, the second best is the folded-tissue-at-the-top trick, and the most effective method is carefully folding the glasses and placing them in a pocket.
And I'm making music. Once a week I record a piece for the Irish group that can't meet at the college at present, and send them to Jane (mandolin player) to forward to the group, and then for a couple of days, people thank me, and some of them record tracks of their own, or record themselves playing along, or send a link to something else musical.
I'm also getting together with a violinist who wants to play the same music I'm interested in. We had been sending mp3s back and forth. I'd send her an accompaniment, and she'd send back the track with her playing on it. We finally got together here, outside, and practiced under the tree out front for a while, properly distanced, and since then we've been playing at her place in Victor while her husband applauds (gently, as he is recovering from shoulder surgery). Next week, we're going to try this wild idea I have of practicing in the garage here. Better acoustics, and there's an outlet right there, and we can still be far enough apart to feel fairly safe.
Now and then, I send a link to the Shakespeare group, which has had its last two meetings via Zoom, which I still haven't installed on my laptop. It doesn't feel like a meeting. Only one person can talk at a time. How am I supposed to whisper to the person next to me?
I'm also slowly collaborating with an old friend in Colorado on new comic projects. It would go faster in person--for me, drawing is often a social pursuit, passing a clipboard back and forth across a kitchen table, that sort of thing.
I also have a project to transcribe some of my sister's songs to sheet music format. Robert Benchley once explained that you can get all kinds of things done, provided you have a big job you are doing all the others to escape from. I'm hoping something bigger will come along so I can devote more time to this worthy project.
And sometimes I blog.
.
I'm getting exercise. When I felt I had to stop going to the gym, I increased my walking to six times a week, three miles each time. First, I went toward town on the paved sidewalk, but I spent too much of my time stepping aside, calculating whether I actually could step aside (between a fence and a puddle), and resenting people who don't step aside when I do. I sat down and figured out a three-mile path in this neighborhood, where everyone walks in the street and it's fairly easy to be six feet away from someone coming toward you. After some weeks of that, I've started exploring a little more, and have rediscovered the overland route to the railroad trail. It makes the walk a little more than three miles, and includes uneven terrain and a bigger hill. Presumably, that's all good. I carry a camera and an umbrella much of the time. The latter not only repels rain, but gives me moving shade. I also use the occasion to research the best way to keep my glasses from fogging up with exhaled breath that comes up from my mask. So far, the second best is the folded-tissue-at-the-top trick, and the most effective method is carefully folding the glasses and placing them in a pocket.
 |
| Today. |
And I'm making music. Once a week I record a piece for the Irish group that can't meet at the college at present, and send them to Jane (mandolin player) to forward to the group, and then for a couple of days, people thank me, and some of them record tracks of their own, or record themselves playing along, or send a link to something else musical.
I'm also getting together with a violinist who wants to play the same music I'm interested in. We had been sending mp3s back and forth. I'd send her an accompaniment, and she'd send back the track with her playing on it. We finally got together here, outside, and practiced under the tree out front for a while, properly distanced, and since then we've been playing at her place in Victor while her husband applauds (gently, as he is recovering from shoulder surgery). Next week, we're going to try this wild idea I have of practicing in the garage here. Better acoustics, and there's an outlet right there, and we can still be far enough apart to feel fairly safe.
Now and then, I send a link to the Shakespeare group, which has had its last two meetings via Zoom, which I still haven't installed on my laptop. It doesn't feel like a meeting. Only one person can talk at a time. How am I supposed to whisper to the person next to me?
I'm also slowly collaborating with an old friend in Colorado on new comic projects. It would go faster in person--for me, drawing is often a social pursuit, passing a clipboard back and forth across a kitchen table, that sort of thing.
I also have a project to transcribe some of my sister's songs to sheet music format. Robert Benchley once explained that you can get all kinds of things done, provided you have a big job you are doing all the others to escape from. I'm hoping something bigger will come along so I can devote more time to this worthy project.
And sometimes I blog.
.
Tuesday, May 26, 2020
five tweets (May 2020)
@kiptw
*****
A regular reminder that I wouldn't have to think about deleting apps I use all the time if Android would let me delete the built-ins I have never touched, or even just move some of these space hogs off the internal drive and onto my SD card.
*****
Please?
*****
*****
*****
"Metaphor? Parable?" "Well," she hesitated. "A fictional construct: shepherd, sheep and all those allusions." "Simile?" "I just didn't think it was... literal." An angelic voice said "You two are next." Glancing back at the milling flock, they ascended the chute. #MicroSFFH
*****
A train of thought: Ripping Yarns was a hilarious show that dealt with a dissection and reassembly of classic boy's stories ("Boy's Own," wasn't it?). Why doesn't someone do a version of it for girl's stories?
But, hell, there are plenty of talented "gals" out there who know a lot more than I do on this subject and could probably find the right aspect of it for a truly ripping deconstruction. Assuming they haven't already. I mean, what do I know? I don't even live in the UK!
But I do think I'd enjoy to see a half dozen or so prime individual tales subverting the standard tropes of fiction designed to pry the hard-won non-decimal pennies from the clutches of the young girls of Britain. Won't someone do this for me? Also, send me money. Thanks.
*****
(The last one is three threaded tweets, last seen in the twelve days of Christmas, which is how one steps around the 280-character limit. Watch this space for more creative reuse of my stale old material!)
.
Friday, May 15, 2020
Time and Tide
Grum waited patiently in his cave. He couldn't see, but he had other senses and other talents, and he was patient. Hungry he was, but he didn't need to eat every day. He could have lived where there was more food, but Grum was smart enough to know that too much food got you too much attention. Better to be patient and wait for food to come his way.
Grum had waited for three days already; he'd waited longer. Different foods came at different seasons. The summer season brought lightly dressed food with long hiking sticks and backpacks. Sometimes it brought food that hunted food. Grum smiled, remembering that time when he got one lugging a fresh deer. Two for the same work as one!
The winter season, on the other hand, brought food that was dressed very warmly, in many layers of cloth and leather and fur. Often, this food came sliding on a pair of smooth boards, or stumping on big flat feet of wood and woven leather. The food called these "skis" and "snowshoes," Grum knew, but he didn't worry about that much. He liked to sit and wait, sniff the air, and think about philosophy.
Oh, yes, philosophy. The minds Grum fed on gave him food for thought. He had an active mind, and he spent his idle time exploring grand ideas. Where did Grum come from? What was Grum's purpose? Where would Grum go after he stopped being Grum? Would he be food for someone else? Would he go to... he paused, thought back to the concept... heaven? Why did the seasons change from warm to cool to...
...Wait! Time for that later. Grum had work to do. Food was coming!
Grum got busy. His cave was off the path, and it took skill to get food to make the right choices to get within his grasp. He suggested the sight of something shining here to make it turn to the left. Next, an eye-blink impression of a small animal that way to move it forward. Closer... closer, where it got easier. Now he made it see a bush right there, bringing his food even closer. Now he could reach a thought into the smell center and make it think it smelled -- hm -- bread baking!
Yes! It worked again.
It was close enough now that Grum could simply make it walk into his home with a little befuddlement and an image of a place irresistible. As it often was, a scene from bygone days; a former home, members of a family now scattered or forever gone. Dinner walked right into Grum's kitchen. Musing on the transitory nature of life, Grum savored the contents of the mind for three or four long seconds -- enough material for more philosophical musings -- before mercifully silencing the thoughts. Grum was not cruel. Now he would feed.
Working methodically, Grum removed layers. Furry hat, earmuffs, mittens, boots, outer coat, inner sweater, another sweater, shirt, socks, thermal underwear -- must be colder than Grum thought, or else this one hated the cold. Grum knew cold from hot, but it wasn't a central concern. He kept working, removed hair, epidermis, fat, muscles, vessels, and tendons with the same care, putting the good parts in a neat pile and discards into two piles: one to be thrown in a pit for scavengers, and one for imperishable items, which Grum either needed to take care of soon, or find another cave with more room.
Preparation over, Grum sat down to feast. For a moment, time waited as he enjoyed anticipation: sweeter even than feasting. Grum pitied the lower animals, who did not anticipate. How dark their lives were. How meaningless! Grum wished he could help them somehow, but food was losing freshness now. Time to eat!
Grum began delicately, as always. He brought his meal back into the cave to where a natural cleft in the rock rose up and brought fresh air in. He sampled the meat, reflecting on the different flavors that chased one another and livened the blood. Salt, always lots of salt, but Grum prided himself on seeing past the obvious. What else? Minerals, sweet tastes, seasoning notes.
Ah! Little flavors that showed up at special times. The herb Rosemary. Evergreen scents lingering -- not from this mountain, but a sort of manufactured evergreen essence. Nutmeg, rum, dairy, all mingled -- Grum suddenly realized it was egg nog. Egg nog!
Realization struck him like a falling tree. He almost dropped the food. It was that time of year again! The special season! Grum knew, knew from many minds that this was a deeply important time of year. A philosophical time. If only he wasn't too late! He had a job to do.
Grum took in a big chewy mouthful and rummaged through the discard pile, found what he was looking for, and hung it on a finger of rock by the flue. He adjusted it, patting it to refine his mental image, and adjusted it again. Then he stepped back and pictured his work: a large, thick sock hung on the wall, waiting for a supernatural being, the embodiment of the season, to come and fill it with something wonderful. Something for Grum!
He just hoped he had been good enough.
.
Originally written in 2006, for the prompt "Tasting the Season."
Grum had waited for three days already; he'd waited longer. Different foods came at different seasons. The summer season brought lightly dressed food with long hiking sticks and backpacks. Sometimes it brought food that hunted food. Grum smiled, remembering that time when he got one lugging a fresh deer. Two for the same work as one!
The winter season, on the other hand, brought food that was dressed very warmly, in many layers of cloth and leather and fur. Often, this food came sliding on a pair of smooth boards, or stumping on big flat feet of wood and woven leather. The food called these "skis" and "snowshoes," Grum knew, but he didn't worry about that much. He liked to sit and wait, sniff the air, and think about philosophy.
Oh, yes, philosophy. The minds Grum fed on gave him food for thought. He had an active mind, and he spent his idle time exploring grand ideas. Where did Grum come from? What was Grum's purpose? Where would Grum go after he stopped being Grum? Would he be food for someone else? Would he go to... he paused, thought back to the concept... heaven? Why did the seasons change from warm to cool to...
...Wait! Time for that later. Grum had work to do. Food was coming!
Grum got busy. His cave was off the path, and it took skill to get food to make the right choices to get within his grasp. He suggested the sight of something shining here to make it turn to the left. Next, an eye-blink impression of a small animal that way to move it forward. Closer... closer, where it got easier. Now he made it see a bush right there, bringing his food even closer. Now he could reach a thought into the smell center and make it think it smelled -- hm -- bread baking!
Yes! It worked again.
It was close enough now that Grum could simply make it walk into his home with a little befuddlement and an image of a place irresistible. As it often was, a scene from bygone days; a former home, members of a family now scattered or forever gone. Dinner walked right into Grum's kitchen. Musing on the transitory nature of life, Grum savored the contents of the mind for three or four long seconds -- enough material for more philosophical musings -- before mercifully silencing the thoughts. Grum was not cruel. Now he would feed.
Working methodically, Grum removed layers. Furry hat, earmuffs, mittens, boots, outer coat, inner sweater, another sweater, shirt, socks, thermal underwear -- must be colder than Grum thought, or else this one hated the cold. Grum knew cold from hot, but it wasn't a central concern. He kept working, removed hair, epidermis, fat, muscles, vessels, and tendons with the same care, putting the good parts in a neat pile and discards into two piles: one to be thrown in a pit for scavengers, and one for imperishable items, which Grum either needed to take care of soon, or find another cave with more room.
Preparation over, Grum sat down to feast. For a moment, time waited as he enjoyed anticipation: sweeter even than feasting. Grum pitied the lower animals, who did not anticipate. How dark their lives were. How meaningless! Grum wished he could help them somehow, but food was losing freshness now. Time to eat!
Grum began delicately, as always. He brought his meal back into the cave to where a natural cleft in the rock rose up and brought fresh air in. He sampled the meat, reflecting on the different flavors that chased one another and livened the blood. Salt, always lots of salt, but Grum prided himself on seeing past the obvious. What else? Minerals, sweet tastes, seasoning notes.
Ah! Little flavors that showed up at special times. The herb Rosemary. Evergreen scents lingering -- not from this mountain, but a sort of manufactured evergreen essence. Nutmeg, rum, dairy, all mingled -- Grum suddenly realized it was egg nog. Egg nog!
Realization struck him like a falling tree. He almost dropped the food. It was that time of year again! The special season! Grum knew, knew from many minds that this was a deeply important time of year. A philosophical time. If only he wasn't too late! He had a job to do.
Grum took in a big chewy mouthful and rummaged through the discard pile, found what he was looking for, and hung it on a finger of rock by the flue. He adjusted it, patting it to refine his mental image, and adjusted it again. Then he stepped back and pictured his work: a large, thick sock hung on the wall, waiting for a supernatural being, the embodiment of the season, to come and fill it with something wonderful. Something for Grum!
He just hoped he had been good enough.
.
Originally written in 2006, for the prompt "Tasting the Season."
Wednesday, May 13, 2020
My Inner Felines
Nine Cats
a quick meditation for when I'm in a hurry
I call upon the spirits of nine cats.
1) First, Poosy Gato, Gordo's cat, for joy, coolness, and wordplay.
2) Second, Mehitabel, for strength and resilience; self-belief in adversity despite the judgments of others.
3) Third, Tom Cat, foe of Jerry Mouse, for dexterity and fighting spirit, even when loss is foreordained, without complaint.
4) Fourth, Eek! the Cat, the kindest cat of all, for whom it never hurts to help, even when it darn well does.
5) Fifth, Sylvester, whose self-concern reminds me not to forget to take myself into consideration.
6) Sixth, Felix, for the will to keep on walking. Left foot, right foot: If not there yet, repeat.
7) Seventh, the Kliban cat, for the vision to see things that we can't.
8) Eighth, Snagglepuss, for discretion, and knowing when to exit, Stage Right.
9) Ninth, the Unknown Cat, heard at night or glimpsed in passing. A mystery, already gone.For qualities not enumerated.
To augment my own inner cat spirit, I summon these, like nine numbered spirits in an animated cartoon, to gather around me and commune, nourishing my soul and adding their strength to mine.
Good kitties.
.
Note: This may be where I first wrote my procedural motto, "Left Foot, Right Foot: If Not There Yet, Repeat." If you take nothing else away from this, I suggest remembering these words. They have been getting me through life for some time now, and work in a number of ways, metaphorical and literal.
.
a quick meditation for when I'm in a hurry
I call upon the spirits of nine cats.
1) First, Poosy Gato, Gordo's cat, for joy, coolness, and wordplay.
2) Second, Mehitabel, for strength and resilience; self-belief in adversity despite the judgments of others.
3) Third, Tom Cat, foe of Jerry Mouse, for dexterity and fighting spirit, even when loss is foreordained, without complaint.
4) Fourth, Eek! the Cat, the kindest cat of all, for whom it never hurts to help, even when it darn well does.
5) Fifth, Sylvester, whose self-concern reminds me not to forget to take myself into consideration.
6) Sixth, Felix, for the will to keep on walking. Left foot, right foot: If not there yet, repeat.
7) Seventh, the Kliban cat, for the vision to see things that we can't.
8) Eighth, Snagglepuss, for discretion, and knowing when to exit, Stage Right.
9) Ninth, the Unknown Cat, heard at night or glimpsed in passing. A mystery, already gone.For qualities not enumerated.
To augment my own inner cat spirit, I summon these, like nine numbered spirits in an animated cartoon, to gather around me and commune, nourishing my soul and adding their strength to mine.
Good kitties.
.
Note: This may be where I first wrote my procedural motto, "Left Foot, Right Foot: If Not There Yet, Repeat." If you take nothing else away from this, I suggest remembering these words. They have been getting me through life for some time now, and work in a number of ways, metaphorical and literal.
.
Monday, May 11, 2020
Oh, You Fortuna Kid!
O Fortuna! Like the moon, a
Vast and slowly turning wheel.
Rising, trending, now descending,
Sans regard for what we feel.
Blame the Muses, make excuses,
Pin our guilt on other hands
Yet it finds us, and it grinds us
Mocks vain prayers and rash demands!
That's not an actual translation. It's more like my impression of the import of the beginning of the most famous bit of choral blustering, known to us in its many uses in action movies, action movie trailers, and TV commercials.
The verses come from a book called Codex Buranus, found and named for a Bavarian monastery in the opening years of the 19th century. The choral setting is from the late 1930s by composer Carl Orff, who told his publisher he could destroy all his earlier material, because his composing career started with his 'scenic cantata.' It's still his most famous piece, though his Schulwerk has also found its way into some hearts and TV ads. I've searched for more things by him that I can like as much, and though I haven't succeeded at that, I can't say I looked and listened in vain. It's just that he only had one piece in him that was this brilliant.
Maybe it's because of the words. When I wanted to put translations into my piano-vocal score of the cantata, I had to use the subtitles from a TV performance for some of them. Orff jealously guarded the texts, or at least their translations, with the result that many LPs and CDs were sold without them by groups that didn't mind paying for the right to record it, but balked at the additional price he and his lawyers wanted for including translations. I Am Not A Lawyer (IANAL), so the legal intricacies of this escape me.
When we were last in London, I got to walk from our hotel to Boosey & Hawkes, music publishers, and run rampant through their showroom, bringing a pile of books with me as I went from one bin to another, now increasing, now diminished as I weighed my desires against my allotted funds. Here was a hardcover edition of the dizzying piano transcriptions of Gyorgy Cziffra, where many times a single measure took the entire width of the page to fit all the notes in. Too pricey for something I'd never even be able to slowly pick through, I decided. And there, just around a corner from Cziffra, was a handsome, substantial hardcover printed in multiple colors: a complete facsimile of the 11th and 12th century profane verses (some 13th century, too, I'm told) that make up the corpus of the Codex burana. Man, oh man! What a feast! I couldn't understand a word of it, even if I'd been able to pierce the veil of the antique hand it was in, but it was gorgeous. Incomprehensibly gorgeous. I picked it up and put it down repeatedly, "like a dog that was too full to eat any more, but didn't want to leave his bowl," as Raymond Chandler once said. Finally, I sighed loudly enough for Cathy to hear me back at the hotel, and put it down for good. It would have taken about half the money I had, if not more. I picked it up again and looked at it once more before I left.
Today, I happened to think of the book again, as I do now and then, and it occurred to me that everything's online somewhere. After finding some copies being offered for sale (yeah, like I have more money now than I did then), I looked harder and found that my friends at the IMSLP--source of so many pieces of Public Domain music that I'd never have found otherwise--have the whole thing, and apart from the annual pittance I pay to help support IMSLP, it would only cost me a little temporary bandwidth and 66MB of storage.
Here's the most famous bit. Most people you will run into who know what "Carmina Burana" is are probably talking about the part that opens and closes the set--24 poems in all--whose thundering "O FORTUNA!" is part of a verse something like my loose paraphrase up there. We see Dame Fortune at its center, and an ambitious man crawling up the right. He becomes King at the top, then falls, and is broken beneath the wheel he once ascended to glory. That ought to sell a few running shoes!
Most of the book is text, though from time to time the exuberance or boredom of the scribe breaks through into a marginal illustration or richly ornamented capital. The book's pages have been broken up over the centuries, and rearranged, and lost, and sometimes found again (seven of the pages turned up somewhere else and were deemed part of the text).
What are the contents? These poems are drinking songs, songs of debauchery, declarations of love for pagan gods and goddesses, songs of feasting, the excitement of the discovery of Amor, a lament from a goose being cooked, and more. Knowing the content of the songs has added to my enjoyment greatly (as with Schumann's incredible setting of Heine's aching verses in Dichterliebe), and I'm glad I spent the time awkwardly inking the translations, however good or stilted they were, into my score. Without spending time in comparison, I'll note that there are multiple versions online now. This one seems fairly recent, and includes some poems that didn't make Orff's cut.
And (I have to break the paragraph here, or the previous link sticks to my foot like toilet paper to a shoe) here's another recent version, made apparently to be effective when sung. I considered myself lucky to have a handful of the lyrics included in a collection of medieval song verses that I found at a college bookstore sale in the early 80s. Just that much more I didn't have to transcribe from a paused VCR. There was one line I had to translate myself, because it wasn't in any of the versions. Yeah, that one was the talk of the Academy, all right.
Incidentally, one of my lasting regrets, apart from not spending sixty quid or whatever it was for the facsimiles, was that I didn't have a quarter to hand when I stood in the Salvation Army store in Loveland one day in the 70s looking at an LP that said it was Carmina Burana sung in English! I've mentioned this several times in classical newsgroups and such, and nobody else on earth has ever seen or heard of such a thing, except for me and whoever bought it before I got back to that store with cash in hand to return to the place in the bin where I'd carefully tried to hide my prize from other eyes. Okay, and whoever sold it to them. And the record company, and the singers, and yeah yeah, we get it.
Anyway, here's the haul: Codex buranus (Carmina Burana) pages at IMSLP. I'd say more, but everybody probably just left. And I was going to sing, too.
.
Sunday, May 10, 2020
"Awright, ya goldbricks!"
Salute to the Silver Age. It's SGT ROCK!
My buddy Randy helped inspire that. Blame him, not me.
.
.
Thursday, May 07, 2020
Wednesday, May 06, 2020
Haiku by the Front Porch, 6 May 2020
Pink buds cluster tight
Waiting to explode in white:
Slow-motion popcorn.
.
ps: 7 May 2020. Same song, second verse:
And May 10 (Happy Mother's Day):
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